The Malcontent

Icon in Decline

Sad news today that screen legend and humanitarian Elizabeth Taylor, 74, might be near death.  She was diagnosed in 2004 with congestive heart failure after a lifetime of ill health.

Taylor has already raised more than $50 million for AIDS-related causes, and it sounds as if her immense generosity won't end with her death:

"She's not leaving a lot of money to her children. She wants the bulk of her fortune to go to AIDS research."

Classy lady.  While many will always remember her for her timeless beauty, it's her beautiful soul that has made a more meaningful impact.

Where's Your Messiah Now?

A study finds that, when it comes to illness, the power of prayer is no damn good at best, and possibly deleterious, at worst.

In other news, researchers are still working to verify whether the Earth is 6,000 years old.

Low-Carb Eye Candy

Boys, put down the Krispy Kremes and listen up!

Ever wonder how the hottest Hollywood stars manage to keep their bodies in top form – aside from having jobs that are more or less all about how they look?

VH1 and Self magazine are collaborating on a new series called "Most Wanted Bodies," giving us the inside dirt on how to get and keep a leading-man look.  (I always thought it was genetics, but apparently there's, like, hard work and stuff involved.)

There were far too many women in the most recent episode for my liking, so we are left with just LL Cool J, Nick Lachey and Matthew McConaghey for these highlights.

Whom does VH1 think is watching their network, anyway – straight men?

It's a gun show, and MalcoVision gives you front-row seats.

[Watch video – 4:15, WMV format, high bandwidth]

[Watch video – 4:15, WMV format, low bandwidth]

Human Trials of Wonka Gum Go As Expected

Being the first human to test pharmaceuticals with unknown effects is neither glamorous nor rewarding:

A volunteer who escaped the drug test disaster told last night how he saw six healthy young men turn into wailing wrecks within minutes.

The test ward turned into a living hell minutes after we were injected. The men went down like dominoes. First they began tearing their shirts off complaining of fever, then some screamed out that their heads felt like they were about to explode. After that they started fainting, vomiting and writhing around in their beds.

The head of trainee plumber Ryan Wilson, 21, is three times its normal size and his limbs are purple. Doctors said his chances of survival were slim.

When it comes to abusing oneself for extra cash, might I recommend the time-tested art of sperm donation from now on.

An "L" of a Downer

To me, The L Word never fully recovered when Jenny decided that she was indeed a dyke, and her husband, Tim – played by the hunky Eric Mabius (he's blond now!) – left Hollywood for the Heartland.

L suffered from a dearth of man flesh to begin with, and the thought of no more nude scenes by Tim has been almost too much to bear.  (Note to Ilene Chaiken: If Queer As Folk could see fit to portray at least one lesbo love scene every week, couldn't you throw us guys the occasional bone?)

Fans of Tim's ass were thrilled last night to get him back, if only for one episode, but we didn't even get so much as a peek at a pec.  Instead, we got the denouement of what I feel has been one of the strongest storylines of the year.

If you didn't see it, there are MAJOR SPOILERS after the jump ...

"The African Queen," or "Welcome to the Hotel Rwanda"

It has been immensely hard to get cell reception in the parts of Africa in which I have been traveling, let alone reliable Web access, so while I have been silent, I have been thinking a lot about the Malcommunity.

I never thought in a million years that I would ever utter the words, "Thank God I am in Rwanda," but it is true.  I had been in the Congo (DRC) since Saturday and couldn't even get GSM on my phone until Monday, but no Internet access until I got to Kigali, Rwanda, last night.

I drove right past the Hotel des Mille Collines, which was the actual "Hotel Rwanda" depicted in the movie, but not the one that they filmed.  But I am staying in the Intercontinental, which is a fabulous hotel not just by African standards, but by any standard.

By the way, the picture at right is the actual African Queen, which was also depicted in a famous movie, built by the Germans around the time of World War I.  (My Web access is too tenuous to Google the correct details.)  It is now used, however, to transport returning Congolese refugees back across Lake Tanganyika from Tanzania.

Anti-malarials, even the mildest of the bunch, are well-known for side effects that are, shall we say, borderline psychotic.  Of course The Malcontent would choose Malarone.

The other night, the dreams began.  They came fast and furious.  And they could probably be easily summed up, at least in the first night, thusly: I was naked in about 90 percent of them and having sex in about 50 percent.

The piece de resistance was sex with Madonna.  (She likes to be on top, boys.  Big surprise there.)  Of course, mid-coitus she walked out on me out of fear that she was ruining her career.  Who can blame her?

I had sex solo, in pairs, in groups, with men and with women.  With exes and with my husband.  At one point I was walking naked down the street and I offered myself up to a passing pickup truck full of men, who were all too happy to oblige me.

I was back together with friends and exes from high school, having sex with many of them, when my life was suddenly transformed into an episode of "Melrose Place."  Literally.  Every little plot twist was attended by needless drama, catfights and cliff-hangers.  I was even certain that I could see the end credits suspend before me in midair.

Then I was sitting at the dinner table in my home where I grew up in Wyoming.  My father did one one of the many things he does to irritate me, and I responded by throwing a small cup of Italian dressing in his face, which precipitated quite a row.  Fortunately, there was no sex involved here.

Sorry to be so brief, but this trip has been one of the most rushed, hectic and stressful I have ever been on.  The "work day" has sometimes started at 6 a.m. and ended at 11 p.m., and I am just now getting over my jetlag, so you can only imagine the state I am in.  But I will be back in New York on Friday morning.

I'll try to post again before then ...

Bury My Penis At Wounded Knee

26-year-old Jesse of Seattle has a tiny problem.  Literally.

Jesse suffers from the heartbreak of a condition known as "buried penis," which he describes as "where it goes inside when you sit down, stand up, and it really itches a lot."

Or if you'd prefer to ask someone who knows what the fuck they're talking about, medical professionals will tell you that buried penis, or "phimosis," is the "inability to retract the distal prepuce over the glans penis."  In other words, for about 1 percent of the adult male population – either for congenital or acquired reasons – the head of the non-erect penis retreats into the scrotum and/or abdomen, making a guy appear more girly than man.

Jesse reports that he has always been hesitant to go to the bathhouses with his father-in-law.  Why you'd go to a bathhouse with your wife's father is apparently a question only for more curious reality-TV producers.  Instead, "Dr. 90210" glosses merrily over the issue and follows Jesse as he prepares to correct the "angle of his dangle."

And if you're wondering why the picture of the kitten in a teacup, then ask yourself about the multitude of other disturbing images I could have included, and the question answers itself.

[Watch video – 12:03, WMV format, high bandwidth]

[Watch video – 12:03, WMV format, low bandwidth]